


Final Justice

by Archangel_Beth



Category: In Nomine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Beth/pseuds/Archangel_Beth
Summary: A vignette about what happens when the mechanics say one thing, and in-game fairness says another. Or: why the Angels of Final Justice sit at the gates of Hell.Originally posted to LiveJournal on May 13th, 2004.





	Final Justice

The well was unguarded, in the middle of the town. It was easy for a figure, robed against the chill night air, to slip to it, pour something in, and slip away again.

The next day, one priest and acolyte stayed in. They had water already, and the acolyte stirred in a potion from another bottle before thinning their wine.

The priest smiled, turning the goblet in his hands. "Tomorrow... Tomorrow they will be dead, or ours. And we will be rewarded."

The acolyte nodded, not meeting his uncle's eyes. He remembered how the demons had granted them both power. He knew how the demons would reward them now.

"You're not drinking your wine. Drink up, boy. This will be the day when our power becomes unstoppable!"

The acolyte looked into the wine, and then downed it.

The priest snorted, draining his own glass. "The antidote doesn't taste that bad, boy."

The acolyte refilled their glasses. "No, master. The antidote doesn't taste like much of anything." And he thought of the hint of "green" that the other townsfolk would be tasting in their water.

He didn't taste anything at all. The potion of death, of enslavement — that would escape even those poor folk who had to drink water alone.

The priest drank four cups of wine. The acolyte three.

"Surely we should be hearing the first mourning wails by now," the priest muttered, trying to stand.

He fell down, his legs gone numb, and realization and horror struck. "You fool! You've given us the poison, too! Get the antidote, idiot!"

The acolyte shook his head, his own limbs heavy and unresponsive. "There's no more antidote left, uncle. I poured it all in the well last night." And poured the rest of the poison down a rat hole — but he didn't bother to say that.

"Idiot! Fool! You've doomed us both!"

The acolyte tipped his head back, and ignored the droning curses. Ignored the flailing hands that would have administered a final beating if the poison had not robbed them of strength and coordination. Ignored everything... and slipped into darkness.

When he awoke, there were others around him, jostling in the darkness and cold. He was so cold. He stood up, and looked around at confused and blank faces. A hand grabbed his ankle, and he jumped with fright.

"You fool," his uncle said, through features somehow vaguer and distorted. "You utter fool. They'd have rewarded us, but now we must go to them with only half the honor we'd have carried before."

The acolyte trembled as the priest climbed to his feet, hand over hand up his nephew's body, not giving him a chance to run and lose himself in the moaning crowd.

There was light in one direction, and faint warmth, and the priest pushed his acolyte that way. There was more noise, too. Screams, wails, sobbing — and as they got closer, the cracking of whips. A pitted and scarred wall rose up ahead of them, and the priest made for it, dragging and pushing at his acolyte.

A disfigured horror intercepted them as they tried to break free of the crowds. It carried a whip, and seemed dressed in patchwork — then the acolyte realized that pale and dark-brown skin was stitched onto its mostly-amber form. In the tongue of demons, it hissed, "That way, that way, damned mortals!" It pointed, and lashed the whip out at the acolyte, catching him in the side and biting deep. He fell to his knees, crying out.

The priest drew himself up. "We are sorcerers, Hellspawn!" he spat out, in the same language. "We come for our due honors!"

The demon laughed. "Go, then! Go through the gates of Hell!" It pointed again, in the direction of the curve of wall, where other demons herded the rest of the dead souls, with whips and curses. "Go past the angels of final judgment! But be wary, sorcerers! If they find you too lacking, they will take you and cast your souls to the outer darkness forever!"

The priest-sorcerer hauled his nephew up, dragging them in the direction of the other dead.

They rounded the corner, and then the curled tail of a vast statue. Up, up, up — a winged lion, black mane and white wings tinted red from the light behind it. The acolyte stared up at it, wondering what king of Hell it was made to represent... and the tail-tip lazily rose and thumped down again, with an impact he could feel throughout his non-existent body.

He broke free of his uncle's grasp and ran, trying to push his way through the crowds of dead souls. A laughing demon, this one with horns and tattered batwings, landed in front of him and lashed him back. He stumbled, tried to run across the flow instead of against it, but another of the wingless, half-flayed demons drove him away.

He tripped, fell on his back, and looked up at the black-winged, obsidian man who stood at the other side of the gates, opposite the giant lion.

His uncle grabbed him and hauled him up again. "Fool! They will think you rabble if you act like them!"

The acolyte choked on words, pointed.

The black-winged man's eyes had moved. Pure black iris and pupil, with hardly any whites to them at all —ƒ and looking at the pair of humans.

"No..." the priest whispered, as the death-angel leaned down, a vast hand descending towards them.

Some dead spirits fled, screaming. Others tried to throw themselves at the angel's feet and get his attention.

The acolyte tried to run, but his uncle threw him at the hand, putting him between priest and angel. The acolyte... apprentice sorcerer, killer of cats, dogs, rats, sheep... maimer of cows and horses... struggled in the impossibly strong grasp.

"No, no," he cried. "It's not fair! I gave them the antidote!"

The voice in his head was immense. ****Yes. You did.****

And then everything was noise, and brightness.

He awoke again, warmer, though still with confused forms around him. He curled up, letting them go past, hoping nothing would find him this time, and stayed that way...

...until a hand shook his shoulder, gently. "Are you all right?"

He looked up, into a concerned face, lit by its own light, framed by the white wings behind. "Ah! Angel!" He tried to scrabble away.

The angel looked more worried. "I won't hurt you! What's wrong? Please, let me help."

The language was not that of demons. There was something in it, something he could not disbelieve. He broke down, crying like a child or a woman. "The demons... My uncle... Hell! We were in Hell! And the angels of final judgment — I thought he would kill me!"

The white-winged angel gathered him into its arms. "You're safe now. You're in Heaven. They saw you didn't belong in Hell, that's all."

"But the demon said they killed the unworthy!"

"Demons lie a lot."

"Oh." He began to quiet, resting in the angel's arms, and finally he was able to stand, with the angel's help. Slowly, they began to walk toward the white gates. "But... they were final judgment..."

The angel said, "That's one translation of their Word. Another might be... Final Hope."


End file.
